The iron curtain
by Arianka
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Mycroft Holmes asks John to meet him. No slash.


This is translation from my Polish story. If I made mistakes, please let me know.**  
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Summary: After Sherlock's "death", Mycroft Holmes asks John to meet him.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own characters and I don't make any profit on my writing.

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**The iron curtain**

"You wanted me to come. Why?"

The Diogenes Club sounded like troubles to him. Mycroft Holmes never asked for him without a good reason. He did it only when he had good reason to worry about his brother. John remembered his last visit too well. He was the one who had surprised Mycroft then, just after he realized who had told Moriarty all the details from Sherlock's life. He was furious that this awfully refined and proper man with his false care could actually have done something that vile. John left, slamming the door behind him and promised himself that he would never get into a car that would stop by him, no matter what. And he didn't, because he didn't have a chance. A few hours later Moriarty achieved his goal. Mycroft Holmes got rid of the burden Sherlock must have been in his eyes, he did it in the most vile way, giving his brother away to his worst enemy. John wasn't going to forgive him that.

And yet he came. It was the first time Mycroft Holmes hadn't forced him to anything, hadn't showed his superiority which was just a complex in John's opinion. He hadn't followed him with the cameras, he hadn't broken into a cash machine. No, Sherlock's brother had called him and _asked_ for a meeting. Once, twice… Until John had agreed, feeling partly sympathetic, partly curious. So far the only reason they had kept in touch was Sherlock. And he was gone. Only memories and a black gravestone were left after Sherlock Holmes, so there was nothing John had in common with his brother. And… six months was enough time to calm most of the hatred inside him.

"I wasn't sure if I should invite you here," confessed Mycroft. He stood sideways to John and watched two glasses he had filled with the alcohol from the carafe. He shook his head after a moment and offered one to his guest. "I don't know if I should show you that, but I decided you from all people deserve it."

"What? What is it?" John accepted the glass with golden whisky and took a long sip. How should he understand the fact that Mycroft offered him alcohol at the very beginning of their meeting? Had something happened? _No_, he thought. Sherlock was dead and nothing else mattered to him.

"Sit down, please." Mycroft pointed him one of the comfortable armchairs and sat in another one. John listened to him, more and more intrigued what his host was going to tell him. Mycroft Holmes was visibly hesitating, but he finally put his hand into his pocket and took something from it. This fact itself surprised John, who expected rather a plastic portfolio, anonymous and professional. What was that, that Mycroft had put it into his pocket? It looked almost too personally, such a cold person Mycroft Holmes usually was. John reached his hand for the item and frowned.

He was holding Sherlock's phone. He had seen it too many times on Baker Street, he had phoned it too many times to find it in the mess after some experiment not to recognize it now. What was more intriguing, the phone was working.

"Open the records," said Mycroft quietly. "Play the one from April."

John obeyed. He found the file with his trembling fingers and played it. Through the noise he heard Sherlock's voice, then Moriarty's. John glanced at Mycroft with astonishment, but he signed him to listen. And John listened. The conversation was sometimes difficult to understand, but John had no problems with understanding the main context and imagining the hospital's roof. Sherlock and Moriarty, Moriarty and Sherlock. Two enemies in the final battle that had caused death of them both.

The record lasted about ten minutes. All this time John was clenching his fingers on the phone and staring into space, trying to control his emotions. It wasn't just the fact that he was listening to his friend's voice. Most of the details from the conversation weren't important to him. Except from one, which made John change his opinion on Sherlock one more time. He knew, of course, that Sherlock had lied to him during their last talk, and that he had to have a good reason to do so. He didn't expect, though, what had made him jump. _Friendship._ Sherlock had killed himself to protect his _friends._ John had known that in this odd sociopath under indifference and contempt were hidden normal, human feelings. And he really, really didn't need _such proof_ of their unusual friendship.

"Why are you showing me this just now?" he asked after a while, when he was sure he could trust his voice.

"I myself noticed it recently," admitted Mycroft, somehow embarrassed. "I have full transcription of this talk if you didn't understand something, I have this prepared earlier."

"And why…"

"Why am I telling _you_ just yet?" finished his host and smiled strangely. "Because now I can do it safely. These assassins are dead. You are not in danger anymore."

John understood this allusion. If he had known that there was a murderer somewhere there lurking waiting for him or Mrs. Hudson, he would not have rested until he had found him. He was qualified enough and he had worked with the police a lot during the last year, but he could become too emotional and put himself into troubles. For some reason Mycroft wanted to protect him from that. Was it for Sherlock's sake? No, Mycroft Holmes wasn't _sentimental_ after all.

But wasn't he? John looked up and glanced at his companion. Mycroft was watching him and John could swear that he had analyzed everything he saw. Just like Sherlock, and yet completely another way. When he spoke, though, he sounded seemingly indifferent.

"Did you notice? Sherlock mentioned three people. You, Greg Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

_And he didn't mention you,_ thought John, but he kept himself from saying that aloud. Was Mycroft upset because of that?

"Three friends…" repeated the elder Holmes in thoughtfulness. "Sherlock never had friends, and yet he found three…"

"Do you?" asked John spontaneously. Mycroft looked at him with surprise. "Do you have any friends?"

Mycroft didn't answer him. He looked at his glass, as if he hadn't heard the question, which allowed John to observe him. Suddenly all his suspicions were confirmed. He understood why the elder Holmes had always looked at him and Sherlock with superiority and disapproval, and why he always looked as if he was disgusted. It wasn't only them. In the world of Mycroft Holmes, and for a long time his brother's too, there was no place for friendship or love, for the feelings that tied, weakened, addicted. Sherlock was a sociopath, Mycroft only seemed antipathetic, but this sociopath, taught to feel, taught to recognize feelings, was in fact more social than his brother. After these few times, when he had found himself in a life-threatening situation along with Sherlock, John would be the first to call a liar a person, who would tell that his friend didn't care for anything except his work.

Mycroft must have seen it too, maybe even earlier than John. Maybe he considered as dangerous, but… he never tried to tell John to leave Sherlock alone. In contrary, though he didn't approve of their behavior, he seemed pleased his brother had found someone he trusted. Anyway, what Mycroft had thought about them didn't mean anything to John – Mycroft Holmes, after all, though older than he was, had no right to judge a stranger like John was to him. But now John saw something else.

He envied them this friendship.

"Friendship is a luxury of ordinary people," said Mycroft finally. "A luxury not everyone can afford. It's a weakness."

"You taught him that?"

"No, I don't think so. We rather… shared an opinion on this issue. Sherlock had just changed his mind."

"Does it surprise you?" John put his glass on the table and looked provokingly in Mycroft's eyes. "Is it so surprising that Sherlock turned to be human?"

"I don't know."

The silence fell again. John tried to understand what his friend's brother was trying to do. What was this all for. Talking about Sherlock was hard, but not unbearable anymore. John was dealing with his demons, both new and these from Afghanistan that had returned, but he was consequently regaining balance in his life. Was Mycroft Holmes trying to do the same? To reconciled himself to his brother's death? He was more difficult to work out than Sherlock, who was in fact predictable in his unpredictability, when you knew what to expect.

"Do you want to tell me something else?"

"No, I don't think so."

John stood up and wanted to leave, but hesitated. He reached for the phone and thoughtfully turned it in his hands.

"Take it," offered Mycroft. John nodded his thanks in silence and went to the doors. He was already on the doorstep, when he heard a question. "Did you tell him? That I'm sorry?"

He wasn't fooled by seemingly indifferent voice of Mycroft Holmes. To his own surprise, he didn't even hesitate while answering.

"Yes," he lied and left.


End file.
